


Roswellian Creature Feature

by Ozymanreis



Series: Sheriarty Week [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Crack, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Crack, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Roswell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How The Reichenbach Fall really happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roswellian Creature Feature

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for today was: Crack. 
> 
> I'm unapologetic.

The blood runs smooth across the pavement. Sherlock staggers back, clutching at his hair. _No. No. It can’t end like this._  

Moriarty is dead. He shot himself in the face not five seconds prior, but Sherlock can’t believe it. Can’t process, brain scrambled by the gunshot. 

It turns out that his moment of hesitation was his saving grace, because in that instant, he thinks to check the fallen criminal’s pulse. Leaning over, he presses two fingers to Jim’s jugular. “Victory to me.” Sherlock gloats, “Your heart is still beating. You’re alive.”

For a moment, the corpse remains still. But internally, Jim debates on whether or not it’s really _time_. “Fine, fine.” His lips move slowly, gingerly getting up on his hands, “But I’ll have you know this _hurts_.” He gestures to the gaping hole in the back of his head. 

Sherlock knits his brow, “It’s a bit of prosthetic make up.” _How could it really hurt? A bullet to the head like that would kill a person. Or at least, they wouldn’t be up and talking._

“Nah, it’s a little more _organic_ than that, Sherly. Want to feel?” Jim offers sardonically.

Curiosity almost gets the better of the detective, hand unconsciously twitching up. But either he’s about to touch colored corn syrup, or actual brain matter. Doesn’t seem like a gamble worth taking, “What’s going on?”

Jim sighs, standing up properly, dusting off his entire suit, covered in flecks of gravel from the roof, “I’m not quite sure how to explain it…” He considers, “But I’ve been sent here to collect you.”

“Collect me? By whom?”

“Our people.” Jim says, pointing up to the sky.

“Our people…?” Sherlock quirks a brow, eyes following his gesture, “What do you mean?” _What’s in the sky?_

“ _Aliens_ , Sherlock.” Jim says, an air of condescension in his voice — as if it were so obvious! “Or do you think a real human could survive a bullet wound like that?” 

“… you’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s the truth!” Jim turns around, moving his hair aside so Sherlock could see the point of impact. Except it isn’t there. No hole, where there had been one, melted away just as the blood had. 

“All that proves is that it _was_ make-up.” Sherlock scoffs, “You won’t be convincing me of anything so _ludicrous_.”

“Sherlock, please listen.” Jim says, pouting his lips out, “You were accidentally dropped here during a mission of space exploration, almost 70 years ago.” 

“Do I _look_ like an old man to you?” _That’s enough proof to the contrary right there._

“Sherlock, our species ages differently.” Jim rolls his eyes, “We start out uni-cellular, and take _decades_ before we come out of dormancy. Those fools at Roswell didn’t yet have the tools to search for you.” 

“Then how come I’ve got a life? And a brother?”

“Easy enough.” Jim shrugs, “You clung onto something unconsciously, it took you to England, you attached to a viable host. We mimic human growth a little more after that, but you’re definitely not related to anyone… didn’t you ever find it odd you resemble _none_ of your family?”

“I… genetics is strange and nebulous.” But it did always strike him as odd… still, there must’ve been an explanation that wasn’t _aliens_. 

“Especially from different gene pools.” Jim murmurs. 

“Quiet. I still don’t believe a word of this.” Sherlock grumbles, but looks over the edge. _As long as Moriarty is alive and talking, I can still save everyone…_ “Why did they send _you?_ ” 

“We were meant to be together.” Jim says simply, “Similar breeding, personality type, attraction factors, etc. We balance each other out naturally.” 

“They could tell that from our ‘unicellular’ beginnings?” He uses actual air quotes, not letting his disbelief falter for even a moment.

“You can tell a lot by genetics. Even with your upbringing here on Earth, you and I are still _bound_.”

“Yes, and I’m the queen of England!”

“No, you’re not!” Jim growls, clearly getting annoyed Sherlock won’t immediately take his word on his other worldly heritage, “You’re a fair sight better than that. Do you think some Earth woman with only symbolic claims to special blood could survive half the things you have?”

“I… she’s very old. Of course not.” Youth had something to do with surviving impossible scenarios. Adaptable bodies, and all.

“Her children, then, whatever.” Jim rolls his eyes, “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m due to take you back on the ship in a few moments. I can explain most things once we’re up there.” 

“Wait.” Sherlock says, considering bolting back into the building, “Fine. I’m an alien. I want proof.” 

Jim huffs, but doesn’t verbally protest. He briefly considers pulling the gun out again and emptying the remaining clip in the man’s chest. _That’d show him_. But since he is more mature than that, he pulls out his mobile, “I’m going to call off the hit on your friends.”

“How does that prove anything?”

“It doesn’t. But I’m going to call it off on the condition you come with me.” He smirks, “Our governing force can explain everything to you in greater detail.”

 _Better than dying, I suppose…_ “What, will I be taken to a warehouse you’ve had painted to look like a spaceship?” 

Jim rolls his eyes again, sending the text, then tossing his mobile aside carelessly. “Mock all you like.” He points up again, a black mass forming in the sky, seemingly from smoke, “There’s our ride.” 


End file.
